


Be Safe

by lostyourwar



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:12:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2775950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostyourwar/pseuds/lostyourwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then thank God that I'm as good as dead,<br/>Then thank your God that I'm not aware,<br/>And thank God that I just don't care,<br/>And I guess I just don't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Safe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArtsyAfrodite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyAfrodite/gifts).



> doesn't really make sense. i was just not feeling very happy and decided to write something but i also want to give this to my lovely teacher, imani, for always motivating me to write. i love u, friend!
> 
> be my friend at lostyourwar.tumblr.com

It takes a moment for his fingers to flinch away from the crumbling tip of the cigarette butt. The sharp pain almost immediately induces a rush of endorphins to soothe his index finger. He stares at the ash that has collected behind his fingernail, makes it look dirtier. He's losing his fucking mind.

The room smells of smoke and sex and the nauseating cheap cologne of the man that had just crept out of the apartment under the impression that Mickey was asleep. Something deep and needy digs inside his belly- carves its name and claims its new victim. When he lets his mind think about it too much, he wants to tear into himself. He's certain he won't be getting any sleep soon, so he scoots off the bed. He slips his trembling limbs into a pair of old jeans and barely remembers to put on boots before he's standing outside in the wintry night beneath the buzzing fluorescent light of the stairwell. The frigid air against his clammy skin stings, but, well, that's not the fucking point. By the time he's three steps down, he's sprinting, desperate to escape the memories of warm skin beneath him and the pleasant bite against his vein and all the laughter. He runs from green, red, from the good times and the days that ended with tired hands coated in blood streaked with tears.

The world is a dark blur around him, emphasizing the loud colorful thoughts that plague him. When the ache in his legs becomes excruciating, he comes to a halt, only to find himself across the street from an elementary school, in front of an elegant apartment building decorated with twinkling Christmas lights. The weight of his panic knocks him onto the ground and he can't find the energy to get back up, to move. He shoves his numb hand between his teeth, bites until he screams and then bites down harder. It's not enough. He's running out of air in his lungs to breathe, but he needs to make noise or he won't exist.

When his eyes finally snap open, he's in the middle of the little playground inside the school. He's certain if anybody sees him in there, they'll call the cops, but the familiar silky sound of his favorite voice glues him to the spot. He's there, behind the red plastic slide. Mickey steps closer to take it all in- he looks glorious and strong, swinging on the monkey bars without a hint of effort. In the back of his mind, Mickey notices the way the sun shines on Ian's ginger hair and how green his eyes look with the trees around them, but nothing is quite as important to him as the rich hum of his voice.

_"You're so fucked up."_

His grin never falters. Mickey reaches out instinctively, drags his fingers across the boy's lips to make sure he's really there. It's shocking to his system, the feel of soft velvet skin beneath his burnt, calloused fingertips. He feels so... fragile. But the words don't make any sense to him. _"I can't do this,"_ Ian continues.

Without wanting to, he digs into the smooth lip, and the skin pulls apart easily. He tries to tell himself to stop, to yell, to fight, but he peels at Ian in silence. The redhead's shining expression does not falter, so Mickey watches his own hands tear at the delicate eyelids, eyes trailing after the blood as it spills down freckled skin. He feels the air collapse into his chest, the golden sunlight hits him in the back of his head and-

He's in a room.

He sits up in Ian's bed, and wraps the stained camouflage-patterned blanket over his shoulders as soon as the cool breeze hits his bare skin. He's aware of a few things. First of all, he's in the shitty little room Ian used to live in when he first left the Southside. He feels like this moment has existed before.

The bed is just a shitty twin-bed mattress tossed onto the floor, and there's a tiny TV across from it that only plays five channels. The window is cracked, taped in place with old peeling duct tape, and hidden behind dirty curtains that have served as makeshift napkins from time to time. There's a milk crate for clothes in the corner. The white paint has chipped to reveal yellow-grey spots beneath it. The only light in the room is a dull orange bulb that was there when Ian moved in. The air is cold and holds a vague unpleasant odor but... Mickey has never felt better. Happier. Has never felt like there is a universe existing within each cell in his body, like the sound of the flickering bulb is a beautiful symphony and the pinch of a syringe still hanging from his forearm is a kiss sent directly from God.

_"Get the fuck out, Mickey!"_

The touch to his back stirs him, and he finds his eyes peeling apart to look at something blurry and brown. He pulls his aching head away from it, and his eyes focus on the dirty snow beneath him. His cheek is completely frozen. There's a crack in his bones as he gets on his hands and knees. "You okay?"

He glances up at the young woman standing over him. She has dark brown skin but hauntingly similar green eyes, glassy and sad-looking. She's tiny and well-dressed; he figures she must live in the nice apartment building. "Uh, y-yeah. Sorry."

She watches him rise on wobbly knees, takes in the hollow cheekbones and the sunken blue gaze, the way death clings to the strange man sleeping outside her home. "I can call a cab for you."

"No, I'm good," Mickey responds, slightly embarrassed as he gathers his wits and starts to separate himself from the incredibly vivid dream he just had. He's dirty and damp from lying in the snow, toes and fingers painfully numb. He makes to walk away, and she's going to go back inside, but there's this look in the guy's eyes. Like he's been destroyed. Like he needs to know that there are people who care. So she calls out after him.

_"Be safe!"_


End file.
